I Know I Can Do Good Things
by redrosemary
Summary: Jowan repeated this promise many times to many women. Will this time be any different?


_Why is it always women?_ Jowan asked himself as the Warden, whom he wasn't surprised was quite a formidable woman, had her sword and dagger crossed at his neck. She was surrounded by two other women, no less formidable than her, even if one of them looked like a barely-clothed apostate and the other, a redheaded archer clad in leathers. Their fourth companion, a man armored in gold and silverite, remained silent in the background.

Even he had heard more than a little about the Wardens. These two were aiming for the Crown, and they were using the Blight as a means to get there.

Jowan was tired of politics and its players. From the Circle to Redcliffe to Denerim to this Maker-forsaken clearing. He just wanted to be able to do good things, whatever that meant.

"Don't go hurtin' Master Levyn now," one of the farmers, old Tom, behind him said defiantly. Jowan admired the courage of the man to stand up to the famous Warden and her infamous gang. That, or the man's sense of danger was terribly dull.

"Levyn?" the red-headed archer said.

The two women exchanged glances, but the redhead continued, "The world has done enough to him, my love. Let him go in peace."

"Interesting opinion from a Chantry sister," the barely-clothed apostate said. "Do you also suggest that we adopt him and his refugees?"

"If we kill him, we'll be forced to kill the refugees too," the armored man pointed out. "Luce, you better decide quickly. I prefer to return him to the Circle now, but the decision's yours."

"If you don't want to set him free, kill him now rather than take the trouble of returning him to his prison," the apostate declared authoritatively, even as the Warden's blades on Jowan's neck were swiftly sheathed.

"That's enough, all of you," the Warden said as she turned to the refugees. "Good people of Ferelden, we mean you no harm. I am the Warden Lucilla, and this is the rightful King Alistair. We are here to ensure the safety of our people from the Blight and from the senseless civil war started by Teyrn Loghain. With us, you're assured that you're safe. The matter of the apostate, however, will be under deliberation."

What the fuck do the refugees think about politics at this point? Jowan thought. And he gave a small chuckle when Old Tom's wife, went to her knees before the Warden.

"Please don't hurt Master Levyn," Mistress Joan, Old Tom's wife, begged. "He's saved us from bandits and helped us escape from the regent's men."

" _Levyn_ led you away from the regent, then?" the Warden turned to Jowan, and took him by the elbow. The apostate and the redhead followed them, while the armored man stayed with the refugees and offered them kind words which probably meant nothing for the refugees.

Once they were out of view of the refugees, the Warden and the archer forcefully yanked the sleeves of his robe and examined his palms and arms. He didn't notice the apostate readying a spell aimed at him, as he was too busy trying to impress the Warden with the truth.

Jowan decided to spare her the trouble, but found that he could not meet her grey eyes. "I've never even been contacted by demons, if that's what you're asking, and I've only used blood magic in the Circle Tower, never outside. And before you ask, no, blood magic can be learned from books too. And yes, I'm not getting involved with the Teyrn again, or anything even remotely political."

Jowan felt a surge of magic sweep through him, and gasped. "I know I can do good things. Let me prove it to you."

They say one's life flashes before their eyes moments prior to death. Jowan's flash wasn't long, and he had forgotten much, but it had a lot of women.

Jowan didn't want to remember his mother, but his last words to the Warden were the same as the last words he spoke to her, in the dead of night, after she had seen him playing with dancing flames on his hand. And just like today, he was also crying—even if for different reasons.

"I know I can do good things. Let me prove it to you."

But his mother only responded with a shriek—"Abomination!"—and dragged him, nightgown and all, to the Templars. Those knights in shining armor did something with their arms outstretched, and then Jowan felt unnaturally drained and exhausted. The Templars took him away, and though he turned back, sobbing for his mother, she never looked once at him.

Jowan had since forgotten the color of his mother's eyes.

Years passed, and he said almost the same things to them, his brilliant teachers. He pleaded before Enchanter Wynne, who was said to be kindly, and to the Grand Enchanter himself—"I know I can do good things. Let me prove it to you!" He tried with all his might to cast spells to their satisfaction, but they cast pitying glances at him. He even caught Wynne mutter, "If only Stella's brilliance rubbed off on the poor child."

Stella Amell was, as her name betrayed, the golden prodigy of the Circle, the star pupil of the First Enchanter, poised to be the youngest Enchanter in the Ferelden Circle, all those things their teachers and a handful of templars raved about. She was his only friend, and he hers, because her brilliance earned not just their teachers' praise, but also the envy of the other apprentices. Jowan accepted her offer to coach him in their lessons, and she did not sigh in exasperation like the enchanters did when his spells were too feeble. But Jowan did not know at which point her friendly academic advice became nags. In the end, he politely told her that he could manage by himself, thank you very much, I'll ask for your help when I need it. _I know I can do good things. Let me prove it to you._

His eyes did not meet hers. And it didn't matter to him if Stella knew that he was lying.

What he was sure Stella did _not_ know was that his eye had caught a young Chantry initiate, and he was sure it was reciprocal. Lily's voice was purer than anything he had ever known. She sang the Chant so beautifully, proclaiming love for the Maker and His Bride so grandly. She preached the harsh duty of the world to leash mages in such a sweet, innocent voice.

Jowan spent many afternoons in the chapel. Sunlight diffused so beautifully in the chapel, bathing the sweet-voiced initiate with a soft golden glow. He wondered if this was love, and later was convinced when Lily delivered the news of his impending Tranquility and proposed her escape plan. She called him her tortured soul, her sweet escape. And he echoed her words: You are my sweet escape. He added his own. _I know I can do good. Let me prove it to you._

Did Jowan love her, truly? He tried to look back, and now, with the Warden stared at him with eyes as sharp as her blades, he couldn't answer. But Lily's words ran deep. _You are my sweet escape_. So Jowan did for her what he had not done for his instructors or even Stella: he delved into the study of magic. Because he could not do conventional spells, he practiced the forbidden arts, exhilarated that there was something he was capable of. A mere prick of his forefinger, and his fire spells rivaled Stella's. But he solemnly swore, _I know I can do good. Let me prove it to_ the world _._

But Jowan had not done good. He betrayed the two women who tried to help him. Lily was in Aeonar and Stella most probably Tranquil. Lily's pure love and Stella's brilliance were of no help to them when confronted with his treachery. But was it really treacherous to want to escape? Or did his sin lie in the fact that he left them because saving them would have been much harder? With his phylactery gone, couldn't he have traced Lily to Aeonar and help her escape, even after she denounced him and his blood magic? Couldn't he have begged Stella's forgiveness and explain to her that he had no affinity with demons?

But his strange fate led him instead to royal politics and the Arlessa of Redcliffe, who treated him fairly better than anybody else so long as her son told her to. He repaid their meager kindness by poisoning the Arl and starting the chain of events that unleashed so much death. He expected to die at the hands of the Arlessa's torturer, a burly woman with an unnatural fondness for chains and spikes. When the undead came, the torturer and her lackeys were among the first to turn into monsters, or perhaps the demons that possessed them merely unveiled their true nature. They forgot about him and wreaked havoc on the village instead.

This was Jowan's lowest point. Alone in the dark, he alternated between wanting to die so badly and blaming the women who led him to this dark fate: the torturer, theArlessa. the novitiate, the brilliant mage, the mother who did not want him, even the Prophet who denounced magic so vehemently just because her opponent happened to be mages.

Finally, he decided his death, without the proper pyre, would make matters worse: he did not want to add his corpse to the legion attacking the poor village. And he decided to attack with his feeble fire spells what undead came passing. He felt mildly successful when he managed to burn the walking corpse of the chain-loving torturer.

That victory brought even stranger fruit. The demon controlling the undead finally decided he was a threat, and decided to send five corpses to finish him as he lay in the dark. He couldn't fight them off, and was starting to fall into despair again, when he heard the twang of bows and the clash of steel onto flesh.

The next time he saw light that wasn't from his fire spells, he saw three women—these same three women who had him at their mercy—with a man with a shield at their rear. He spared them the trouble of questioning him and told them everything he knew or guessed about Redcliffe, and the deeply political root of the undead infestation.

At the mention of Teyrn Loghain, their leader's demeanor changed from apathy and disgust to a semblance of pity, and she opened his cell.

"I don't care where you go, but the door's open. And if Alistair here will not kill you for vengeance, the undead will," she said in farewell, her grey eyes not bothering to meet his.

"I know I can do good things," he whispered in reply, but she had already turned her back to him.

He fled Redcliffe and avoided cities, towns, even merchant caravans. The former he could completely bypass, the latter not, especially since everyone was fleeing the Blight. One stormy night he chanced upon Mistress Joan, Old Tom and their group desperately trying to stave off three wolves.

His instinct was to run, but another wolf crossed his path. And so he blasted the wolf with his magic, and since he still had the semblance of a conscience, he sent a feeble fireball to finish the wolves terrorizing the farmers.

The wolves did not die immediately, but it did weaken and confuse them enough for the farmers to stab them with their grey iron and steel clubs and bolo knives. They also quickly took to him, and for the first time Jowan did not have to tell anyone that he could do good things. They shared their food and medicine. Mistress Joan even undertook to put some flesh to his bones, and put more food in his bowl at dinner. In turn, he built campfires that kept them warm. He had thought of abandoning them at some point, but not until he knew they had reached shelter.

And now he understood that the farmers probably did not need him anymore.

* * *

"I've done many bad things," Jowan pleaded with the Warden, who after examining him found no scars indicative of blood magic, other than the scar on his palm.

"I don't doubt that," she said, while the apostate laughed and the redhead maintained a passive expression.

"'Tis a rare blood mage indeed who cavorts with no demon," she remarked, her golden eyes glittering. "You found tomes which taught you, did you not? Those Chantry fools really don't know that there is more than one way to skin a cat."

Jowan nodded. "I've never used blood magic since I fled the Circle, though. And I think I know how to navigate the Fade without accepting deals there."

"That's what matters," the apostate laughed.

"Magic is magic, yes," the Warden said. "Even Lay Sister Leliana here knows that. Now, since it would clearly trouble poor Leliana and bother beautiful Morrigan if I were to kill you and turning you over to the Chantry is much too bothersome, I'll let you go your merry way. But I don't trust you to be with the farmers. Leave now, Jowan."

"Why are you letting me go?" Jowan asked.

"Those farmers will try to kill me if I kill you. They won't succeed, of course, but I can't have it known that Warden Lucilla murdered a bunch of farmers fleeing the Blight, even if it's rumored they're harboring an apostate," she answered.

Jowan felt that she was not entirely truthful, and then the Warden laughed. "You and I have something in common. Loghain fucked us up. For that reason alone, I pity you and let you live."

"Thank you," he told her. "I fucked up, Warden, and I regret it. The Regent only marginally fucked me up, but he did fuck up too many lives. Now I only mean to accompany the farmers only until they're relatively safe."

"Nowhere is safe now with the Blight," she said. "I'll have Leliana give them a map to Redcliffe, where you are definitely _not_ going. But I know of mages living alone in seclusion in caves and woods. You'll do that, now."

"All right," Jowan agreed. He turned his back to her and started to walk away.

Perhaps, in solitude, he could be capable of doing good things.


End file.
